


Flashes

by lonelywalker



Category: Cowboys & Aliens (2011)
Genre: Alien Abduction, M/M, Oral Sex, PTSD, Western
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-29
Updated: 2011-09-29
Packaged: 2017-10-24 03:51:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/258665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelywalker/pseuds/lonelywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John can't sleep. Woodrow tries to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flashes

Absolution has attracted a better kind of criminal ever since the demons came.

Usually more people means more brawls and violence, but there's been a renewed spirit of cooperation among the townsfolk in recent days. Whether it's motivated by fear, shared experiences, or actual friendship is hard to judge. What it's led to, however, is rebuilding of burned houses, trade for local businesses, and quiet days for the lawmen. There's the occasional drunken argument, of course, but nothing requiring more than a stern talking-to from the sheriff, and getting Charlie Lyle to drag any offending parties home.

By day John Taggart sits outside in the sunshine and watches the world go by, occasionally taking a stroll to see the construction work or find out what kind of trouble Emmett's got himself into, Dog eagerly running ahead.

By night he sits in his office and does paperwork, straining his eyes to read the newspaper, wondering where Jake Lonergan or Ella might be, and trying not to think of too much else. Sometimes his new best friend, Woodrow Dolarhyde, comes by with stories of the cattle trade.

He doesn't sleep.

If anything, he'd expected Emmett to wake up in the night screaming and crying, just as he had as a baby, just as he had only months ago after the death of his mother. From what Woodrow and Doc and Emmett himself had told him, the boy had endured horrors beyond belief trying to track down the demons in the desert. John had been perfectly prepared to sit up with him all night, holding him, wiping away his tears...

Instead, Emmett had been out like a light that first night back in town, while John had stared at the ceiling for hours. Then, when he finally had slept through sheer exhaustion, he'd endured dreams in which he was paralyzed with fear, desperate to scream, and woken up to find Emmett shaking him hard enough to just about tear off an arm.

He'd known men to be like this during the war, shaking and crying in the night, distraught by seeing their friends shot down right beside them. Of course he'd understood why they were upset, but the same thing had happened to him, hadn't it? And he'd just gritted his teeth and got through it, stood up every morning ready to fight again even when his flesh was flayed open by blades and bullets. Only women and children and cowards behaved that way, and John Taggart has never been a coward.

But now…

"Grandpa?" Emmett and Dog clatter into the office. The boy's covered in dirt as usual, but at least John can be reasonably certain it's from an honest day's work on this occasion. He's been running himself into the ground going errands, delivering messages, maybe even building a little muscle by pitching in with the construction work.

John's little girl's little boy is finally on his way to becoming a man.

God, that makes him feel old.

"What is it, Emmett?" He doesn't mean to snap at the boy, but it's what he does these days, too weary for manners. Just as the Dolarhydes seem to have rediscovered their concern for their fellow men, his usual gentlemanly etiquette has deserted him.

Emmett looks thoughtfully up at the row of rifles lined up against the wall. "Are you coming home for dinner?"

Food seems like such an irrelevancy at this stage. John rubs his temple. "It's late, Emmett. You should get some sleep. We'll eat in the morning."

It's no way to bring up a growing boy, but he has no energy to start cooking, and no reason to want Emmett hanging around the saloon in search of a meal either.

Dog whines. It's almost as if he understands.

Emmett squints up at him in the half-light of the office. "You're not coming home?"

"I will in a bit. I have work to do."

"I could help!"

He probably could, as well. He knows his letters, and John should have begun to teach him how to handle a weapon a long time ago. But he'd relied on Emmett's worthless boy of a father to teach him how to be a man, and now he isn't even sure that he can.

"When you're older. Go to bed, Emmett. We'll talk in the morning."

The boy leaves, calling the dog to follow him. He's a good kid, to worry, to obey without shouting and slamming doors. So much could have gone wrong with Emmett without his parents, without a school, without any other children anywhere near his age. John had worried about him being too soft, and then about him being too much of a tearaway. But Doc keeps telling him how well Emmett had conducted himself, how much he'd learned, how much he'd _grown_ , and not just in terms of inches.

His own grandson had saved him, and he still can't ask the boy for help.

John takes off his hat with a sigh, planting it on the desk and leaning back his chair until his head touches the wall. Perhaps he could just sleep for a few minutes, before the dreams have a chance to touch him. He used to have plenty of nights when he would sleep for hours and not dream at all. Why can't he find some of that solace now?

But the instant he even closes his eyes he can see that horribly enthralling blue light sweeping over him, the chatter of teeth in the darkness, a chill sweeping over his body…

"Working late?"

John has his feet on the floor and a hand on his gun before he even opens his eyes. But it's just Woodrow Dolarhyde in his best making-deals suit, standing in the doorway like he was meant to be there.

"Woodrow!" John gets up, meaning to berate him as much as he would Emmett, but no words come.

"Passed Emmett on the way here. Said you hadn't eaten. What do you say we see what Maria's stew is like today?"

"I'm not hungry." Even now, after all he's done, kindness from Woodrow seems like it must be a precursor to something distasteful, like cutting Percy some slack yet again.

Woodrow looks him up and down. "Uh huh."

For all John’s exterior toughness, his social standing in this town, and even having a fourteen-year-old _grandson_ , Woodrow always seems to manage to treat him like a kid brother, never to be taken very seriously.

He hangs up his hat by the door now, and then closes it gently, looking up and down the street for potential company. "John, you know the boys talk. You haven't been sleeping."

The boys. Once John would have been horrified to know that Emmett was even in the same street as Percy Dolarhyde. But now… Well, they probably have more in common than ever before. Including snitching on their family members.

"Now why would that be your concern?" John shuffles the papers on his desk, trying to put them in some kind of order for the next morning. If he can even see straight in the morning.

Woodrow approaches the other side of the desk, fingers touching the beveled edge. "You're my sheriff. There are more people in Absolution than ever before, and not all of them as considerate as I am. If you can't do your job, I'll have to find someone who can."

"Good luck with that." The territories aren't exactly flooded with honorable candidates, and none of John's deputies, solid men though they are, is begging for a leadership position.

Still, that phrase, _my sheriff_ , just isn't being said with the same tone he would have expected only a week or two ago. Could it be that Woodrow Dolarhyde actually cares?

Woodrow leans in. "John, we both know you can't do this to yourself forever. Emmett needs you. _I_ need you."

He's right. Eventually he'll just collapse, hopefully not when he has his finger on the trigger of one of his many guns. But if he tries to sleep, they'll just come for him in the night, making him wake screaming in terror. And what kind of a man does that?

John shakes his head ever so slightly. "You don't know anything about it."

"No, I don't." Woodrow can use this low growl of his to strike fear into any one of his men, but now he's simply being sincere. "They killed Nat right in front of me, John, but I was able to strike back. To outwit those bastards. I can't imagine what it must have been like for you and the others. Percy can't even remember his own mother now, but I think it's a small mercy. At least he can sleep at night."

John stares at the desk between them, trying to keep his eyes open. "It shouldn't affect me like this. In the war…"

"In the war you could fight. No one doubts your bravery. But I saw the way they wanted to hold Jake down and cut him open. No man deserves…"

The sound of Woodrow's voice cuts off abruptly as John's vision goes black, restored a second later when his arm thumps hard into the desk, breaking his fall. At least that wakes him up.

"Jesus, John." Woodrow's arms are around him, propping him up. "I'm taking you home, kid. Carrying you if I have to."

John squeezes his eyes closed, trying to clear his vision and fight Woodrow off at the same time. Both are fairly ineffective. "No… Emmett's there. I…"

Somehow, Woodrow understands, but his grip on John’s shoulder doesn’t relax for an instant. “I have a room here now. Use it when I’m doing business late. Come on. You can lie down at least before you fall over.”

And, really, he’s too tired to argue.

Woodrow locks up the office with more care than John could have imagined possible from him, then puts an arm around his shoulders and leads him to his room, which is in one of the town’s newer buildings. It’s still nothing special, just wooden walls with a bed and a couple of chairs inside, but tonight it wouldn’t seem any more inviting if it was a palace.

John sits down on the edge of the bed and knocks off his hat, stretching out his back as if that might actually help to relieve some of the ache and tiredness in his body.

"Drink?" Woodrow's opening a cupboard with the intention of pouring it anyway, so John just nods. Why not add mild inebriation to the mix?

"How's business?"

Bourbon sloshes between two glasses. "Not too bad. People always need meat, and reliable suppliers."

John barks out a laugh. "You, reliable."

"Compared to some others, damn straight I am." Woodrow passes him a glass, sitting down beside him, one knee up on the bed. "Percy's really taken to the books, if you can believe it. Damn things used to give me headaches."

"I know the feeling."

"Well, younger eyes can… Here, let me…" And Woodrow's hand is on the back of his neck, tangled up in his hair. John's just about to ask him what the hell he thinks he's doing when Woodrow _digs_ in, and it really feels surprisingly good. "Doc keeps saying all these headaches really start in the neck. Still can't figure out what medical training he ever had, but he might just be right."

Moaning out loud in pleasure and delight might not be quite right for present company, but John does find his eyes closing, his muscles relaxing.

"You should get a girl. The ones in that new place aren't so bad."

"Not exactly suitable for my position."

"Oh, you're a sheriff not a priest, and god knows Meacham was no saint. Take off your jacket."

John barely gets the chance to open his eyes and look at Woodrow quizzically before he gets a nudge in the ribs. "I've seen the bruises Percy has. Take off your jacket. And your shirt. If you won't let a girl look after you, you might as well let me."

It's easier not to think about why he lets Woodrow tug the jacket away from him and then unbuttons his vest and shirt. The bruises from the way the demons had snatched him up from the street are still livid, angry yellow and purple around his ribs and over his shoulder. Still, they're healing. He's had worse, and the pale scars alongside them are evidence of that.

"Jesus…" Woodrow breathes.

"I'd get worse falling off my horse," John mutters, feeling an unfamiliar heat coming to his cheeks under Woodrow's gaze.

"But you never fall."

Both of Woodrow's hands go to his shoulders, thumbs putting pressure on the muscles of his neck, pushing in and making it hurt, and then making every kind of pain just disappear.

"John…" Woodrow says in little more than a whisper, and there's something in his tone John can't quite decipher until he feels lips pressed to his throat, a strong arm around his ribs.

He should grab onto the arm and _pull_. Woodrow would be sprawling on the floor in seconds. He should. He sees it in his mind's eye, clear as any of the nightmares he's been having lately. But when he opens his eyes he's still sitting there, and Woodrow Dolarhyde is still kissing him. He just hasn't breathed in about a minute.

"What… what are you doing?" he asks, not sure what he hopes is the answer.

"You don't visit the whores, John, and I'm pretty damn sure you're not still grieving your wife." Woodrow's voice is low, fingers working on his belt, and John has to bite his lip not to try to snap a few bones before charging out of there. "So tell me you don't want me to make you feel good for a few hours."

Rational thought is one of his strong points – the ability to make split-second decisions under fire, and most of the time right ones. John swallows. No one else is here. The door is locked. No one will know. What harm could it... "You're trying to blackmail me."

"Yes," Woodrow says dryly, patting his shoulder. "I'll tell the whole town you let me suck your cock."

Those words are all he needs to grab a fistful of Woodrow's shirt and kiss him, good and true on the mouth before he can try to think any more rational thoughts, an insistent warmth growing at his groin. He can feel Woodrow grinning against his lips, that devil, a hand unlooping his belt. How many times has he done this before? To how many men?

Still, John did many things during the war he's never been proud of, but they'd been excusable, surrounded by other young men, convinced they were going to die the next morning. Now...

 _This is unnatural_ , he wants to say, but then he remembers where the bruises came from and why they're even on speaking terms at all, and every argument against having Woodrow's mouth hot and wet around him just evaporates like steam on the wind.

"Lie down," Woodrow says, giving him a shove. "I'm too old to be kneeling on wooden floors just to get you off."

John does as he's told, wincing a little until he can get comfortable, Woodrow stripping off his pants and boots with businessman-like urgency. For the last few nights, even just lying down in bed has been fraught with a shiver of fear, but John knows there's no danger of falling asleep just yet, not the way Woodrow Dolarhyde is stroking him: thighs and belly and cock, getting him hard like he knows no whore would ever manage.

Woodrow looks up with a hint of a smile. "Relax," he says, as if John's some recalcitrant pony, and closes his mouth around John's cock.

His hips buck up slightly, unconsciously, at the sudden sensation, but then Woodrow's hand is grasping his hip firmly, licking and sucking him in a rhythm he can't control and just needs to accept.

Maybe he should lie back, squeeze his eyes shut, and think of some buxom young girl. Maria, maybe. She seems to be the fantasy of most of the adolescent boys in Absolution, and many of the men. But somehow there's absolutely nothing more arousing than the reality of Woodrow, infamous cattle baron and his frequent nemesis, being the one to do this. If he was on his knees it would probably be even better.

John's hand drifts down to touch Woodrow's head, stroking his hair. No, this isn't about humiliation. And if it's about dominance then there's a darn good argument for Woodrow making a complete slave out of him, the way his breathing is ragged, his lip bitten almost bloody trying not to cry out to God with the way Woodrow is making him feel.

"Please…" he finds himself saying. Now when he shuts his eyes there are no flashes of monsters in the darkness, just warmth and need radiating from his very core. "Please, god, Woodrow…"

What he wants so badly to say is _don't stop_ , and Woodrow doesn't, tongue lightly flicking over the head of John's cock before sucking it deep down as John gasps and groans with need. It's been so long since he had anyone at all touch his body this way, let alone offer him this kind of relief…

His climax takes him by surprise, smashing into him with unfamiliar intensity and taking his breath away. Whether he cries out anything at all is impossible for him to say, deafened by the blood pumping in his ears and the sheer incredible sensation of it all. But when he can finally breathe, he's still stroking Woodrow's hair and murmuring his name, like some lovestruck kid.

Goddamn it. If Woodrow can get him off like that, he'll be happy to put up with his own idiotic reactions. He's sleep-deprived and probably half drunk anyway.

He watches Woodrow lick him clean and sit back, a look of complete and utter approval on his face. "I could fuck you raw right now," he says quietly, running a hand up over John's thigh. "But you'd better get some sleep."

 _Jesus_. If it wasn't for the way Woodrow's made him almost buzz with pleasure he'd be out of there in a second at the idea of Woodrow rolling him over, pushing his legs apart, and just _taking_ him...

And if it wasn't for his age, and the fact that he's just come in floods down Woodrow's throat, he knows he'd be getting hard again.

He catches Woodrow's wrist. "You'd better take your clothes off if you're sleeping here tonight. Not a chance in hell I'm letting you skin me with all those buttons and buckles." It’s the only kind of invitation he can manage.

Woodrow looks at his hand, nods slowly, and pulls free, going to strip at the foot of the bed. "Promise me you'll sleep."

John should have anything but sleep on his mind, except that his body is finally giving in, and his mind no longer wants to even try and cope with what has happened, both with the demons and with Woodrow.

He sleeps for the better part of a day.

The nightmares still wake him, breathless in the darkness, unable to truly understand what had happened. But there's a calming hand on his shoulder, now, and at least it's Woodrow he's waking rather than Emmett. Emmett needs him to be strong, and Woodrow Dolarhyde's done far worse things than have a few night terrors.

"There's a lamb roast at the saloon," Woodrow says in the doorway, the sun setting behind him as he flings a clean shirt onto the bed. John can only imagine what sort of conversation he must have had with Emmett.

"Are we celebrating?"

"We are. Get up. You need to eat too. Then you can spend the whole night arresting people if you want."

John dresses with care, still sore but at least no longer deathly tired. He should keep his mouth shut. Would, if...

He fastens his belt and stands up, reaching for his hat as the thought comes to him, perhaps the first truly clear thought he's had in days. If he says nothing now, nothing will ever happen again.

Woodrow is fidgeting with the holster of his revolver, outlined by the last rays of sunlight in the doorway. They've had so many wars of words, so many utter refusals to even compromise. But John can close his eyes now, as he dusts off his jacket and swings it around his shoulders, and think of nothing but Woodrow Dolarhyde's lips on his, and what a relief it had been.

He moves to pull the door closed. "Woodrow…"

If this is a nightmare, it’s better than any other he's ever had.


End file.
